[A character-driven story chronicling the experiences of a woman in an abusive marriage and how the impacts live on in the woman after her.]
1. THE TEA-GREEN HOUSE
Money makes everything look good from the outside.
It creates the illusion of a perfect home. A one storey bungalow painted tea green with a roof the colour of the forest. Brand new cars parked in the garage, only used on special occasions. A german shepherd lying at the front doormat, ears prickling occasionally at the sound of voices. Four kids in alternating order, boy, girl, boy, girl, behind those green walls, each one focused on their own thing. A mum that would lay down her life for her children, and dad. Well, a dad that would buy the life for them.
Money makes everything look good from the outside. But it doesn’t buy you peace. It doesn’t buy you long-term happiness but it most definitely creates an alluring illusion of one for everyone peeking from the outside. Most especially, it doesn’t buy love. And I would know this because behind those green walls was a man about to hit his eldest son for not studying all day. He might then proceed to hit the woman that identifies as his wife, and perhaps the children would end their night no longer doing their own thing but huddled around a sobbing mum, consoling her in hushed voices.
For them, it was just one of those nights. Would be one of the calmer storms. Tomorrow, the woman would go back to singing worship songs as she performed her wifely chores. The children would be more cautious, tiptoeing around eggshells. They’d probably stay off the parlour for a week. They’d study more or pretend to. They’d greet ‘good morning’ religiously, knock before entering doors, and make sure to listen carefully for the sound of the car horn at the gate.
Every day, they’ll watch out for the signs of things falling back to normal. Like the mum singing happier songs. Sparks of conversations, however little between the both of them. Her gradual return to the parlour, first to watch her favourite night sitcom and then staying overtime to watch the movie succeeding it. Then one day he’d leave and return with takeout for everyone.
In that green house with all the stains on the walls, cracks on the tiles, distant sound of a preacher yelling from a battery-operated radio, with all its homely touches and warmth, that was the closest they ever came to an apology.
So instead of saying ‘I’m sorry’, I learnt to wait it out; to show acts of apology without verbally expressing it. I learnt that time mends but it doesn’t heal. We all learnt to block the noise, each in their own way. But it never really quietened.
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